


Menticide

by lategoodbye



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: Brainwashing, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture, Implied/one-sided Male Deputy/Jacob Seed, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-02-19
Packaged: 2019-10-31 15:54:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17852612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lategoodbye/pseuds/lategoodbye
Summary: After all, there’s little value in a pet that strays. A faithful dog can have but one master.





	Menticide

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this last year and promptly forgot about it. Then New Dawn came along and back I dove into the cesspool of endless pain and suffering that is FC5. This is fine.

Jacob lets calloused fingers run through the Deputy’s soft, damp hair. They come away dirty, bloody. The man’s a fighter. It’s taken about a dozen of them, so one of his Chosen informs him, to hunt him down. He’s outright killed four—all lowly meat of course—sniped them from cover until they finally managed to close in on him. Took down two more with his bare hands until they bagged and tagged him. Now his knuckles are bloody, and his lip is split. Dried leaves stick to the back of his neck and his shirt is torn at the collar. Still out for the count too but that’s to be expected. And where he’s going he won’t be needing his mind.

His hunters present him with the Deputy’s weapons: a sniper rifle and, surprisingly, a bow and arrows, a few explosives for the less subtle approach, a handgun for emergencies. There’s much to be learned from a person’s chosen instruments of destruction. The Deputy here fancies himself a soldier, one who controls the battlefield from afar instead of getting his hands dirty. Nothing could be further from the truth, but Jacob will rectify that soon enough.

“Upstairs,” Jacob orders as he withdraws his hand from where it’s come to rest firmly against the feverishly hot skin of the man’s throat. So easy to end his life now, stop this charade of his that has plunged the whole Project into chaos. Such a waste, too. No, this deputy’s talents will be put to good use. Jacob will make sure of that. Let Joseph have what’s left of him after.

 

Water, Jacob muses, does wonders to rouse a man’s spirits. Take the contents of the bucket he’s just emptied over the Deputy’s naked form, for example. That water’s stale, foul even. It leaves dark patches on the bare mattress underneath. The Deputy, who’s been made to listen intently for hours and hours, gasps and strains against his restraints. It’s causing the old bedframe to rattle, or so Jacob imagines. He can’t hear a thing over the song that’s being played from the bulky old speakers by the bed. 

“Only you…,” he repeats the familiar melody while the Deputy’s lips move soundlessly, trying to put into words the thoughts with which his mind can no longer provide him. The man’s sturdier than he looks. He’s survived with admirable stoicism that which has caused countless others to descend into madness. So what if he’s weakened by hunger, fever, pain? What if he’s shivering against the unexpected cold? Jacob isn’t interested in any of his many shortcomings. He’s drawn instead towards the imperfect scaring on his chest, where his brother John has left his mark. He’s drawn towards the flicker of a swollen tongue as it darts out to catch droplets of moisture pooling on his upper lip. The angry, reddened skin where it rubs against chains. The hectic but unfailing rhythm of the Deputy’s breathing. The vaguely puzzled look in his too-bright eyes, the remnants of stubborn determination etched onto the damp skin of his forehead. It’s then that Jacob realises that he finds the man to be beautiful. 

He’s expected a pinned butterfly, broken in spirit and in body—much like the one Joseph has sent him first. This deputy, however, has come to him, has entered his territory willingly, has made his way across the Whitetail Mountains with single-minded purpose: an outpost here, a signal tower there, dozens of Jacob’s people dead all because of him. He reminds Jacob of one of his Judges, all restless energy and determination—a weapon in need of a target. And maybe Jacob should mark him, too. Make him his, not just in spirit but for everyone to see. It’d be nothing like Pratt’s bruises and it would surpass John’s scars, Faith’s Bliss-fuelled machinations. After all, there’s little value in a pet that strays. A faithful dog can have but one master.

But then there’s Joseph, of course. Jacob knows that he can’t deny him. When he talks you listen. When he asks you obey. Only that he hasn’t outright said why one single man—one of their fiercest enemies no less—is of such great importance. Principles, those Jacob understands. He also knows, just knows that Joseph is special: a wise man, a holy man—the herald of their salvation. To die for him is a privilege, to help pave the way to Eden’s Gate an immeasurable gift. Still he can’t help the jealousy that threatens to poison his resolve when it’s Joseph who demands the Deputy’s attention. Jacob is, after all, but a flawed man and the sins written on his skin are earned, not merely made visible by John’s skilled hand. Joseph knows this, which is why he has tasked him with breaking the Deputy’s prideful spirit.

And, secluded as they are in the small room, with only the music and the harsh glare of a few well-placed spotlights to distract him, Jacob permits himself to linger a little while longer. His fingers leave wet trails as they run through drops of water that have collected on the landscape of the Deputy’s overheated skin. Jacob’s hand stills against his flank. Broken nails dig into the muscle there until he can feel the man’s aimless strength. All mine, he’s long decided. And it’s plain for him to see—there’s only one way for this to end.

 

Music’s in the air, it has taken a hold over the Deputy’s body and mind as he’s facing the first of many trials. For a moment there, it seems as if Jacob has miscalculated. The Deputy ignores the weapons in his path and shies away from the opponents that guide his way.

“Again,” Jacob prompts as he witnesses the man’s defeat. There’s no time for punishment. Unlike the ceaseless repetition of the task ahead it serves no purpose. Progression comes naturally when the only option is survival. On his third try the Deputy goes for the handgun on the table. He squeezes the trigger. Once. Twice. Bodies, real and imagined, hit the dirty floor.

“Good. Cull the herd.” Jacob can’t help but admire the man’s technique. He goes for precision, well-timed bursts of energy. A good soldier, a suitable tool. He lets him run the gauntlet another half a dozen times until he’s pleased to see that there’s no longer any hesitation, no longer any room for self-reflection in the Deputy’s hollowed out thoughts.

Oh, he’s aware of course that the man would gladly kill him given the chance—and that’s the difference between him and Pratt who obediently stands by his side, who never looks at him but always watches, like a dog that’s been beaten one too many times. Pratt will never lay hands on him now, he’s been trained too well. The only thing keeping the Deputy’s wrath at bay is Jacob’s will. It’s because he’s stronger, the better man, that the Deputy’s on his knees before him, sunken eyes aimlessly mapping out details of the new reality that the constant repetition of violence has provided him with. And in that moment Jacob remembers what it feels like, burying one of his hands in the man’s thick hair. To pull at the strands until the Deputy’s made to pay attention.

“Excellent.” His voice is kind, his praise is earnest. The music, the Deputy’s constant companion, drones on and he surrenders his assault rifle willingly as he stares ahead, eyes unfocussed, into his former partner’s anxious face. Pratt too has witnessed the remaking of him but whether he’s envious or afraid Jacob can’t say. He’s no longer paying attention. Deputy Pratt’s never been more than an indulgence, but maybe—judging by how his bloodshot eyes linger on the Deputy’s exhausted form—he’ll yet serve another purpose.

“Restrain him.” And he watches with interest as Pratt hesitates, just a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment until he becomes aware of the attention and wraps the duct tape around the arms of the chair hurriedly. The Deputy’s not the only participant in this experiment but he’s the most promising by far. Already he’s helped Jacob weed out the unworthy. The bodies around him, still tied to their chairs, will testify to that—so when the Deputy will come to, he won’t be able to help himself. Curiosity and need will lead him right back. To where he now belongs.


End file.
